September 27th
by Aidenfire
Summary: It had been two years. Draco remembers. HD slash-ish. Angst.


For: Miggy at LJs MP3 ficathon.  
Song: Sneaker Pimps - Bloodsport  
Rating: PG, PG-13 if you're touching about a tad of swearing  
Words: 1031  
Notes: This is rather angsty. Also, it's what I'd call truncated pre-Harry/Draco. Thanks to Haikofu and Broken Angel, both at FA, for doing a great beta on very short notice!

It had been two years. Two years to the day. He remembered it clearly—he'd been there. He'd watched green eyes—determined, not scared—as a blast of similar green had been aimed at himself. He'd watched as Harry jumped in front, absorbing the blast and saving Draco

Draco had never quite forgiven him. What right had Harry had to be so fucking noble? Of course as soon as he'd disposed of Voldemort, Harry had came to make sure Draco was safe. He had come just in time to block the killing curse Lucius Malfoy sent towards his son. And the second time Harry was hit with Avada Kedavra, it caused much more damage than a simple scar on his forehead. With the current political feeling, though, Draco probably would have been safer dead than alive. He could not remember a day without a muttered death threat or a hexed envelope in his mailbox. In death, a person's redeeming qualities were remembered, while the rest were forgotten. In life, people weren't nearly so forgiving. Harry had traded his own life, a life that would have assuredly been filled with happiness and fame and money and everything else anyone could possibly want, for Draco's life. Harry didn't realize, or maybe didn't care, that the wizarding world saw Harry's sacrifice as Draco's fault—like Draco had _asked_ Harry to die for him—and no one viewed saving Draco's life as something worthy of losing The-Boy-Who-Lived's life over.

Draco laughed mirthlessly. He didn't blame them. He thought Harry's life was worth more too, and he would give anything to have their positions reversed. He looked down at Harry's grave. It was simple, next to his parent's. He hadn't wanted excess adoration and in his will, forbade the building of any large monument. Still, there was nothing he could do to prevent the presents admirers heaped upon him. At any given time, even so long after his death, there were so many flowers and tokens heaped around the unassuming headstone that the only words on it—Harry James Potter, July 31 1980-September 27 2001—were all but indistinguishable. Not like anyone needed to look at the headstone to know whose grave this was.

If their positions were reversed, if Draco were dead, his grave would be the absolute opposite of Harry's. It would have a large looming marker, costing more than the entire Weasley clan made in a year, but no one would visit and cry over him.

Harry_ would_, whispered a traitor voice in his head. He smashed the thought with memories of Harry holding the youngest Weasley's hand, of Harry laughing with Granger, of Harry sneaking off with Padma Patil for illicit snogging behind the greenhouse. Harry, if Harry were to come to visit his grave, would only come out of a sense of duty to see a colleague. Harry would visit Draco's grave, stand there for a few seconds, maybe place a small token on it, and then go back to his warm cozy house where a lovely wife and an adorable child awaited him. He wouldn't come the way Draco came to Harry's grave—empty-handed, weekly, for hours.

Draco couldn't explain why Harry's death affected him so much. Draco didn't even particularly like Harry, the little git. Even when they were working on the same side, they'd spent most of their time together snapping and snarking at each other. All of their friends would have sworn they hated each other. So why was Draco showing up at Harry's grave so consistently? Before Harry had died, Draco hadn't thought that Draco'd grieve overly much if Harry were actually to die. Of course, he knew wouldn't be pleased like he thought he'd be in his school days, but he hadn't expected this emptiness, this feeling that when Harry died, like he'd taken all the good in the world with him.

His mother had warned him not to get close to people when he was younger, right around the time his father went into Azkaban for the first time. "Affection is weakness. It is something that does no one any good, and is the easiest emotion to exploit," she had told him. "Don't let yourself fall into that trap." Draco supposed that in some ways she was right. He must have cared about Harry in some way, somehow, or he wouldn't be feeling this hurt, this fucking bitter. It should have been _him_ six feet under, not Harry. _He_ ought to be the one who was dead.

Draco heard footsteps coming up behind him. Reflexes hone from the war and enhanced by not being the most popular person in the wizarding world had him spinning around, wand out, before even seeing who was coming. He scowled as a shock of red hair came up the path. Ron Weasley. What a pleasure.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" said Weasley, a glare to match Draco's on his face. Draco said nothing. How could he answer a question when he didn't know the answer? Weasley's scowl deepened at Draco's apparent disrespect. "Harry wouldn't want you loitering around. Why don't you go home to your wonderful Death Eater friends? Oh, wait; they're all in Azkaban, aren't they? What a pity."

Draco didn't bother trying to explain to Weasley, once again, that Draco was no longer affiliated with Death Eaters. He had thought hard about which side to be on, but ultimately, it all came down to Potter. Just like everything else had. Draco had realized that in the end, he could never face Potter with the intent of killing him, and that would be what a Death Eater would be expected to do. It wasn't that he liked Potter, but—they had gone to school together. He'd spent so much time antagonizing Potter and laughing at him that he wouldn't know what to do with himself if Potter was gone. But Draco didn't waste words on people like Weasley, people who would never understand the complexity of other's emotions. Instead, he looked at Weasley for a few more seconds, then turned and walked away, the crunch of fallen leaves under his feet the only sound in the deserted cemetery.


End file.
